“I studies for the church in Baltimore,” the padre says, “an’ thar the priest must keep a curb on his Americano parishioners. They are not like Mexicanos. They’re fierce an’ headlong an’ go too far. If you let them gamble, they gamble too much; if you let them drink, they drink too much. The evil of the Americano is that he overplays. It is not so with the Mexicano. If the Mexicano gambles, it is only a trifle an’ for pleasure; if he drinks, it is but enough to free a bird’s song in his heart. All my people drink an’ dance an’ gamble; but it’s only play, it is never earnest. See! in the whole Plaza Chaparita you find no drunkard, no pauper; no one is too bad or too good or too rich or too poor or too unhappy.” Then the priest beams on me like he disposes of the question; an’ since I’ve jest been drinkin’ his Valley Tan I don’t enter no protests to what he states. From what ensoos, however, I should jedge the padre overlooks his game in one partic’lar. As me an’ the padre sits gazin’ on at the dance, a senorita with a dark shawl over her head, drifts into the door like a shadow. She’s little; an’ by what I sees of her face, she’s pretty. As she crosses in front of the padre she stops an’ sort o’ drops down on one knee with her head bowed. The padre blesses her an’ calls her “Chiquita;” then she goes on. I don’t pay no onusual attention; though as me an’ the padre talks, I notes her where she stands with her shawl still over her head in a corner of the dance hall. Across from the little Chiquita is a young Greaser an’ his sweetheart. This girl is pretty, too; but her shawl ain’t over her head an’ she an’ her _muchacho_, from their smiles an’ love glances, is havin’ the happiest of nights. “It looks like you’ll have a weddin’ on your hands,” I says to the padre, indicatin’ where the two is courtin’. “Chiquita should not stay here,” says the padre talkin’ to himse’f. With that he organizes like he’s goin’ over to the little shawled senorita in the corner. It strikes me that the padre’s remark is a heap irrelevant. But I soon sees that he onderstands the topics he tackles a mighty sight better than me. The padre’s hardly moved when it looks like the senorita Chiquita saveys he’s out to head her off. With that she crosses the dance-hall swift as a cat an’ flashes a knife into the heart of the laughing girl. The next moment the knife is planted in her own. It’s the old story, so old an’ common thar’s not a new word to be said. Two dead girls; love the reason an’ the jealous knife the trail. Thar’s not a scream, not a word; that entire _baile_ stands transfixed. As the padre raises the little Chi-quita’s head, I sees the tears swimmin’ in his eyes. It’s the one time I comes nearest thinkin’ well of a Mexican; that padre, at least, is toler’ble.